The Last of the Stewards
by Ark ThirtySix
Summary: Thanks to Éomer's involvement and the well-intentioned interference of Beregond, the first week of her marriage to Faramir does not go as Éowyn had hoped.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This has been posted elsewhere under the name Lastharper, but I've decided to slowly pull all my fics together, despite writing for radically different fandoms. (If you know me through Rizzoli & Isles, this is quite a switch.) I want all my kids under the same roof.

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The Last of the Stewards

I was given this journal by the Warden of the Houses of Healing, though I cannot say what he thought I should write at such a time when our future seemed at once so certain and yet hopelessly unknown. There was little to record beyond darkness, gloom, death, and not much food though I had little thought for hunger or for thirst. It was then that I met Faramir, the Lord Steward of Gondor, and life became a thing to be cherished for the first time in as long as I could remember. To write down the details of an afternoon spent together in the gardens seemed like caging a wild thing, and I knew too much of that already.

Some months have passed now, and with a scholar for a husband I am drawn back to that leather-bound volume again. I have never felt that I need earn his approval, and that is a gift indeed, but I find that his smile when he sees me sitting quietly with this book is as precious to me as a new-edged sword.

We have a garden in Ithilien: that shall be the first matter to be recorded here. Faramir promised it to me upon the city wall and he is a man of Númenor, ever faithful to his word. The land is more brown than green though for the soil has just been tilled and we await the arrival of Legolas in Ithilien when his travels through Fangorn are complete. The earth is not idle though as it receives the sun and rain, preparing itself for what is to come. I feel like this garden in some ways myself, as if I am only now ready for what one might call a proper life. My days until now have left little time for reflection and I am only now comprehending simple things about my own heart, which I should have known best of all but seem to have been the very last to understand.

I first had this thought when we traveled to Rohan to lay Théoden to rest and I saw the symbelmynë growing fair upon the mounds of my forefathers. When I set my hand in Faramir's and received the blessing of all, we too made a new beginning out of the death that nearly claimed us both. I fear however that Faramir was not so well versed in the customs of Rohan as to fully understand the significance of the ceremony. Prince Imrahil, to whom I owe my life, said as much later that night. We were seated near enough for conversation at the great table in Meduseld where so many silent, bitter meals had been served. Now the hall was filled with light and song and the laughter of even the sternest horse-lord.

"Forgive him, lady," Imrahil said quietly. "In Gondor there is some period between the announcement of intent and the deed itself. I doubt he was fully prepared for such a swift change in his estate."

I had thought that Faramir appeared somewhat dazed that long afternoon when Rider after Rider hailed him as brother. It seemed that no one had explained the ceremony to him, nor that this evening's feast was to celebrate our wedding, which he had quite utterly failed to recognize at the time it had occurred. Faramir had been in close counsel with Éomer for the better part of the night, one or the other glancing along the table in some pretext but unable to disguise that they were looking at me.

"Is he displeased then?" At the thought, I felt a coldness creep over me, one which had been all too familiar for most of my life and I knew now to be despair. I tried to marshal my thoughts and devise some plan by which he could diplomatically extricate himself without our countries, long allies, coming to blows. Perhaps my exclusive preference for white gowns had somewhat confused the situation. My face, once capable of masking what few emotions I permitted myself, must have betrayed my unease for Imrahil shook his dark head and laughed at my distress.

"No, lady—that would be the very last thing he wants. Faramir is simply unaccustomed to having his wishes granted, let alone one so extravagant. You have quite blinded him I believe."

That may well have been the case, for the men of Gondor are not ones to lie even in jest, but I could not see it. Faramir had told me more than once that he found me beautiful, but I had thought it was simply the awe that one might feel for anything new and unfamiliar. The women of Gondor are dark-haired and pale from long days in their houses of stone, while I am a daughter of Rohan in every way, or so men have said. Faramir saw in me something unlike what he had known, and all he had known was death and sorrow. Perhaps I was no different, seeking something besides what I had loved and lost before.

I say that the idea of marriage came suddenly for Faramir, but no less so for myself. I had no doubt that I wished to be his wife, for all that we had known each other for so short a time; but like a seed newly planted that idea had yet to firmly root itself. That night as I waited in my chamber, it seemed we were back in Minas Tirith where he had come each evening to bid me a peaceful night before retiring to his own rooms. But tonight he would stay and there would be no parting until death did that for us. It is almost impossible to imagine, with Sauron vanquished, that any shadow could return to trouble Middle-Earth, but I sense that when the time draws near I shall find death a more dubious and perplexing matter than when there was nothing for which I wished to live.

I was wrestling with this very thought when there came a hesitant, almost embarrassed, knock at the door. I had hardly expected Faramir to pause at his own chamber, but he was ever proper in his manner towards me. When I opened the door though, it was to find two of the White Company who had escorted us, Beregond and Anborn, and with Faramir between them. Many a bridegroom in Rohan had gone to his bed so drunk as to have little memory of what followed, but I had never imagined that Faramir would join their ranks. Beregond seemed to feel personally responsible for allowing his lord to reach this state, and on this of all nights. I struggled to reassure him, afraid that he might offer to exile himself from Ithilien entirely if he felt he had failed the Steward.

"I am guilty in not acting swiftly enough," he repeated stiffly. "The Rangers drink very little when afield and the Lord Faramir has never been one for the inns of the city. I fear this is what your brother's ale has done, and…" He paused, mouth working uncomfortably. "…there was a dwarf."

I allowed myself a smile at that, recalling Gimli's determined efforts to best our Riders at their own pursuits. I had thought for a fleeting moment that this had been Éomer's doing, and I would not have been surprised if it were. Did he yet think it his duty to protect me from anyone who showed the slightest interest in my person, even my own husband? And yet it was because of Éomer and his men and their nights at the mead bench that I was not dismayed. I knew as any other woman of the house how best to tend a man in this state.

"Leave him with me, Captain Beregond. I will care for him."

"M'lady…"

"Yes," I said simply. "I am, and as such please place your lord upon the bed. You may stand watch outside if it would ease your conscience."

When Anborn finally coaxed Beregond out to the hall, I turned to the matter of undressing Faramir. It was a process I had contemplated on several occasions before now, but in those imaginings he had always been a willing participant. One boot came off easily enough but the other seemed to have been stitched to his very foot. My right arm was regaining some strength but I still favored it gingerly and it took some persuading on my part to pry the boot loose. As the night would be colder than what he was accustomed to in Ithilien, I left the rest of his garments for morning and pulled the blankets close about him.

The problem now was that Faramir occupied the exact center of the bed, which I had never thought of as small until I had to share it with someone whose shoulders were twice the width of my own. There had never been much privacy in Meduseld, but I had my own quarters as a member of the royal family and had never shared a bed before. The choice might have been taken from me had I not made certain my door was secure when Gríma Wormtongue's ways turned dark, but this sanctuary had remained inviolate.

I had heard of some men who woke roughly from a drunken sleep, attacking even those they loved most, and I had no desire to discover the truth of this for myself. I laid beside Faramir with one hand pressed to his shoulder in hopes he would sense my presence, as I had been taught to with stabled horses when moving beside them in their stalls. I had not intended to remain so, but I found the scars of some old battle there upon his skin and gently mapped their constellation with my fingertips to guide me. There would be a thousand nights and more to spend together, but for that one I held watch until a deep peace unlike any I had ever known settled over me and I slept at last.

§§§

I have always been a restless sleeper and had assumed I would wake often, unaccustomed to the presence of another, but I slept the night through for the first time since the Riders had borne my father's body back from the Orc raid. Death has always been known in the Mark and while I numbed myself to the fear of it, my dreams have never allowed me to forget. I turned during the night and woke with my face to the Eastern window, as I had all those days in Minas Tirith as we waited for some word from the Captains of the West. Faramir had turned with me, drawn in sleep to the light, so that we woke to hope together, both in the sunrise and each other. Set atop a hill, Meduseld faces the brunt of the winds from the valley, for safety is more important than comfort. I had woken chilled nearly every morning of my life but now I woke to the feeling of soaking in the warmth of a perfectly drawn hot bath. I had never known the indulgence of a warm bed before: the luxury of it was intoxicating. Tucked within the curve of Faramir's body, for the first time in all my armor-clad life, I felt myself truly protected.

I shifted carefully, mindful of my arm and of waking Faramir, to face him on this first morning. All feeling of contentment turned to ice within me at the sight of his face, troubled deeply as though he had hardly slept.

"M'lord?" I whispered. He had begged me quite sincerely on bent knee to call him Faramir even before his men, but I was so concerned for him that the formality came unbidden. I knew the shadow of old wounds could linger for years, but Faramir had seemed to heal so completely, far more quickly than I had, that I sometimes forgot how grievously he had been hurt. If only the Rohirrim had ridden sooner that I might have slain the Nazgûl before so much as a shadow should ever have touched this man! But some shadows had fallen into both our lives long before we met.

Faramir's eyes cleared as he looked at me, his brow still knotted. I knew that his eyes were grey, having made something of a study of them, but I had not realized how they would lighten in the morning sun. Quite seriously, he took my hand in his, drawing it to his chest as we lay together.

He found his voice with effort and said gravely, "I hope you will not think ill of me, but may I presume that we were wed?"

At that my jaw dropped, though I have been told it is generally quite fixed and even stern at times. I tried to compose some clever remark about having expected him to forget our anniversary but certainly not the wedding itself. What I finally said was, "And what precisely might you take me for?" I said a bit more after that too, and only stopped when I saw Faramir pressing the flat of one hand across his forehead.

"Yes," I repeated, lowering my voice to a whisper. "We are wed, though I have been informed that weddings in the Riddermark bear little resemblance to the affairs of Gondor. You have my brother and his favorite dwarf to thank for anything else you cannot recall."

It took every ounce of Faramir's valiant courtesy, which was no small thing, to right himself onto one elbow. I stared up into his eyes, as I had upon the wall when I felt the Shadow lifted and my heart set free, in the same instant when it was lost forever. "Éowyn…_leofu_…if I may presume again…I cannot seem to…" He glanced repeatedly down at himself, still fully dressed save for the infernal boots, and then more furtively at me, as if he had not the right.

I took mercy on him then, though I was sorely tempted to play the matter as far as it would last. I have found that the men of Gondor are as sincere as they are brave, but it leaves them somewhat vulnerable to dissembling. "Beregond and Anborn brought you to me drunk and asleep on your feet, and that is all there is to the tale."

"This tale improves with each new verse," Faramir said grimly, but some of the bewilderment eased from his face. "Am I to hope at least that I was not too much of a nuisance?"

I held fast to his hand, which was already withdrawing, and brought it to my lips. "Let me be plain in this at least: there was no nuisance, nor dissatisfaction. To know that you walk upon this land is more than I could ask; how could there be any disappointment to wake beside you?"

Faramir looked at me in stark surprise, as if he had not expected me to speak so plainly. I understand now that it is his way to accept little thanks and as much blame as can be had, some bad habit from his father whom I shall never have the displeasure to meet.

"Very well," he replied, having considered his answer. "But let me to swear to you, again, Éowyn of Rohan, that I shall fulfill all my obligations to you as a proper lord. You will lack for nothing."

I had hoped that he felt more than a simple obligation towards me, but I was beginning to learn something of how my husband spoke, as though his every word were being recorded to quote back against him at some future point. I had not yet decided if I should adopt the same cautions for myself or speak plainly in hopes that he would see in time that he could trust me with his words as well as his heart.

Something of this confusion showed on my face as we considered each other in the early dawn. Without a word, Faramir drew me to him, my head just beneath his chin until I could hear the beating of his heart. It had a peculiar limp, one beat softer and just behind the other, which I know now is simply the manner of hearts. But before that morning I had never allowed myself close enough to another to listen carefully, and mine had fallen silent long ago. I felt my breath come into pace with his as we lay together, and minutes passed, or possibly an hour, before we spoke.

"We should arise or the men will talk," Faramir said solemnly but did not let me go.

"Truly," I replied, looking up, "but they have so little to occupy them now that Mordor has fallen. We should give them at least a morning's gossip."

Faramir looked as though he hardly knew what to do, which was not what I had intended, then laughed as clear and bright as the morning sun. But just as I hoped we might make good on my words, the beloved and benighted Captain Beregond knocked at the door.


	2. Chapter 2

We set out two hours later on our journey home across the Eastfold towards Gondor, which was the pressing matter that had brought Beregond to our door. I was anxious to ride again, despite my arm which was nigh useless for holding the reins, but Faramir suffered some I think for not having long enough to recover himself. I remained in the stables during the leave-taking, seeing to the baggage and preparations. I told myself at the time that I wished to spare my surprisingly sentimental brother the indignity of crying before his people; but in truth I could not have kept myself from weeping and I could not bear the thought of how it might seem, as though I were being carried off against my will.

When our company assembled at the gates, I saw Éothain approach leading a gray yearling colt behind. He spoke earnestly with Faramir and was directed at last to give the lead to Mablung, who has some experience with horses beyond riding. But this was no mere saddle horse such as were kept at the waystations between Gondor and the Mark, for if Shadowfax was chief of the _mearas_, this colt was surely his heir. In suspicion and surprise I turned back in the saddle to see Éomer standing remote above at the threshold of Meduseld. I have rarely seen him out of armor these last years, but I would have known him instantly among a dozen _eoreds_, standing as straight and proud as all the fathers of our house. Hesitantly, I raised my one good arm and saw his hand lift just barely in return, then rest once more on his sword hilt. More than that, he gave no sign. I understood then that if Sauron and all his legions could not separate us, so short a distance as the leagues to Emyn Arnen could not surely. He would ride to us ere long.

As we cleared the outlying settlement, Mablung gazed in wonder at the yearling pacing beside him. Even with his shorter legs, the _mearas_ moved as one with our horses, not straining ahead or falling behind as he consented to our company. "I can hardly believe my eyes," Mablung said reverently. "I saw the White Rider's mount in Minas Tirith, but never thought to find the like again. Has King Éomer fallen into madness—he's given us the finest creature in all his land!"

I looked quickly to Faramir and caught the faintest trace of pain in his eyes, recalling his father's decline and final doom, but he was smiling when he turned to me. I have never held a _palantír_ nor should wish to, but I know that it can grant one the ability to know the mind of another across long distances. Looking at Faramir then, I knew his thought as if he had cried it aloud from the height of Orthanc: _A fine gift yes, but you are the fairest thing in the realm. _

My blood singing within me, I hardly noticed the next hour's ride. Éomer had taken care to send us back with good mounts, gentle and light-paced as we had no need for full gear of war. What baggage we carried was strapped to two docile geldings that I arranged to have tethered to Beregond's mount, since he had such a desire to prove his competence. I am no stranger to life on the march and fared as well as any of the men yet I began to chafe when they held nearly to a walk all that first day.

"Lord Faramir!" I called at last, loudly enough for the rest to overhear. "Shall I ride ahead to prepare the house for you? I should have time to plant the first crops and harvest them before you arrive, if this is all the speed the horses of Gondor can muster."

Beregond looked as though a troll had clubbed him but Anborn laughed aloud and said, "O Captain, what wild shieldmaiden have you brought back from the War? Was there none in Gondor to suit you?"

My horse had drawn level with Faramir's (hardly a difficult task) and our eyes met again, recalling together how I had asked that very question of him once before. "No, Anborn!" Faramir called back, though he did not take his eyes from me. "There is none in all of Middle-Earth like her, and even were she the queen of Valinor itself, still I would love her." And he kissed me then, before all the men and beneath the sun, as if it gave its blessing for our happiness. I felt that the men too granted their approval, though we had not asked it. They would have served me for loyalty and their oath-bound duty, but in that moment they pledged themselves to me without a word or any indication, each one unto death. They seemed to find it some extra grace that Faramir, Captain of the White Tower, Prince of Ithilien, last of the Stewards, should be the happiest of all in these happy times. Faramir said nothing but I saw that he was pleased that his two great loves should be in accord.

I took my fair turn at camp duties each night and learned quickly how things were expected among the White Company. One of the men, Falborn, had some skill at herblore and we talked much each night, gathering the roots and plants I had taken for granted my whole life. I was eager for each new name and property, as eager as I had once been for swordcraft and the hunt. I realized that I had never truly had a companion before, save Merry who had nudged my heart to life with his loyalty and sacrifice. The women of Edoras had always treated me courteously but I was too consumed by worry for King Théoden to spare any time for lingering by the kitchen fire. But now I have found a dozen companions, friends of hearth and heart, whose minds are turned to the same things and our souls equally stirred by honor, valor and devotion. I had held my tongue for long years in the bitter darkness, but these men spoke their minds and yet respected each other in turn. Oh, to speak and be not silent!

Our meals afield were less than we might have had in Meduseld, but there is something in the open air that whets the appetite as a sword to stone. They judged my own modest offerings quite kindly, though it was Faramir himself who proved to have the most skilled hand at the fire. One night as we neared Cair Andros, he made rabbit stew from a recipe he swore to have learned from Samwise Gamgee, companion to Frodo Baggins. (Whatever his skills as a gardener, Sam is an excellent cook.) I am blessed beyond most women in that I came to know Faramir's heart before we were wed, and many could not claim to know their husbands half so well after ten times the years. In other matters we are nearly strangers and each day brings some new revelation.

Each night by the campfire the men told tales of the Elder Days that I had heard only snatches of before. I knew the names surely— Fëanor, Gil-Galad, and proud, doomed Túrin —but never a tale in whole, always rushed off to settle some small domestic turmoil while the rest of the house sat and listened. The Rangers knew dozens of tales back through the ages to the earliest days, of how Finrod Felagund had come to the campfire of men, offering wisdom and friendship, and I know now how those first men might have felt. When Damrod was called upon one night for the Lay of Leithian, I heard it with a heart full open and I rejoiced for the King without shadow or hesitation, understanding at last what trials he had endured for the love of Elrond's daughter.

The men were eager for the passing harp to reach Faramir and I soon learned why. My husband may have spent his youth at Gandalf's heels, but at least some of it had been under the tutelage of a master minstrel. He humored the men with several shorter verses they seemed to expect, but was coaxed at last into the tale of Eärendil's voyage into the West. I was entranced by the story as much as Faramir's voice, a clear, warm baritone, but most of all by the devotion of Elwing who braved the judgment of the Valar lest she be separated from her beloved.

The men were nothing if not fair and they demanded I take my turn as well. I declined as politely as I could, but after two cups of wine I sang of Rohan under the same stars we had all looked to in the darkest years before the coming of the King. They listened in quiet respect and none more so than Faramir. I had never mentioned to him that the women of Rohan sing throughout the day at their work, and I am accounted not the least of them.

It was a temptation that first night to linger at the fire, but dawn comes earlier than ever to these parts, so I made my way to the tent which had been pitched for us, far too closely to the others I felt. At the time we made camp I had been busy tending the horses, one of which had acquired a stone in his hoof, and Beregond had undertaken the task for himself. Before entering the tent, I first made certain that he was not posted nearby with a naked sword ready to defend us from an imagined troop of lurking Orcs. I respect the good captain in every way and am reassured that Faramir has such a loyal servant, but I do not believe my husband needs any more protection in the night than I can provide. To my surprise, I discovered Faramir already within, bent over a flat-sanded board that stretched the bare width of his lap.

"What are you writing, m'lord?"

He scratched out another half-line before raising his head. "A message to Éomer, assuring him of our safe progress. He had some concerns about our journey with the rabble of Isengard still scattered throughout the land and has provided a trained hawk for the very purpose. We had little time to speak this last week, but he was good enough to allow me several hours audience after the, ah, wedding."

To this day Faramir gives me a wry look when he says the word, as if perhaps I made the whole thing up and have ensnared him with the help of some aged mead and a willing dwarf. Yet while I would not do such a thing, having not the patience for a convoluted ruse, I would not put it past my brother to have some hidden motive in this new friendship. I love them both, doubt me not, but they have as much in common as sea and sky.

"Several hours? Indeed."

Faramir nodded, finishing the last line with a flourish and beginning to roll the parchment tightly. "We had quite a bit to discuss, even beyond political matters—poetry in fact."

I hadn't thought Éomer knew more than several verses of the more popular drinking songs. "There is another Éomer among the Riders," I said, gesturing a few inches below my own head. "Shorter, long of beard."

"I know your brother's face, I can assure you, and his narrowed eyes as well. He has quite a love of the old songs. I hope to send a minstrel back to Rohan to record as many as possible for the annals." A thought struck Faramir then and his voice quickened. "Perhaps we could go as well for a time, when matters are more settled. I would not have them say that I have kept you captive in the South."

"I would be glad at that," I said and felt my heart lurch within me. It was not the mention of captivity but his kindness, which ever surprised me. It was no fault of Théoden's that my life until now had been spent serving only the needs of others and with no thought for myself, but the years had shaped and bent me like a sapling curves to the bowstring. Freed now, still I looked to others first. "Glad of it indeed, thank you."

Faramir nodded but said no more, as if he understood that to make much of the offer would make me reluctant to accept. "Anborn, I thought perhaps, would make a good choice. He has only two years with the Rangers and might be eager to see new lands." Already he was making on a note on another sheet of parchment of which he seems to have an endless supply.

"Is Anborn married yet?"

Faramir glanced up, startled at my inquiry. I had not thought the question so surprising but I had struck something to distract him from writing. "No, few of the Rangers are. Patrolling Ithilien kept us from the city most months of the year, and I fear that our short lifespan made us less than promising candidates for marriage." He placed the pen aside and considered me carefully. "I suspect you have some other motive here. Are you planning even more alliances between our lands?"

"Would you have me know this joy and not help another to find it?"

Faramir opened his mouth but seemed unable to find fitting words. I must remember that he is not accustomed to being shown favor and it seems to touch him uncomfortably close to the quick. How could one who was never shown the least kindness yet be so kind of heart?

I waved one hand as if the notion had been merely a whim. "It only troubles me that Rohan lost many sons to the Pelennor that morning. Should the maidens left behind carry their grief alone for the rest of their years?"

Faramir laughed at that, as sharp and quick as a fox. "Very well, perhaps Anborn and Mablung as well. Should I warn them before we set out or let them discover their danger for themselves?"

"Surely not!" I laughed. "What harm could they come to from the daughters of Rohan?"

"Thus says the woman who slew the Witch King of Angmar."

I smiled and affected a very proper curtsy after the manner of the Gondorian court, which I had practiced on occasion when there was no chance of being observed. Faramir inclined his head in admiration and clapped politely. His eyes were warm and sincere in their appraisal, and while I could not be sure he seemed to linger on me, which was pleasing yet still surprising somehow.

"You've studied," he said. "I can only hope I've learned my lessons half so well."

"Ah yes, and what else did my brother tutor you in besides the old ballads?"

Faramir tucked the writing board aside and stretched his legs out before him. "In particular, he was greatly concerned that I be able to provide properly for the _mearas_ yearling."

"A kingly gift indeed," I said, "but fitting." I had not wanted to offer any undue criticism, but I had not been impressed by what I had seen of Gondor's stock. "I was surprised though. Éomer has a generous heart, but he swore never to part with one of the _mearas_ again, even if the King himself required a steed."

A faintly pained look crossed Faramir's face. "Ah yes, you were seeing to the horses when Éomer approached me. As you know, Saruman's treasury is being most carefully catalogued and the more dangerous items disposed of properly. When the cleansing first began, all manner of creatures were discovered in the darkest pits, intended no doubt for Saruman's accursed designs." Faramir did not raise his voice but his words took on a cold, precise tone that I had not heard before, yet welcomed gladly. He has little sympathy for those who exploit the weakness of others. "Éomer said the colt was found among them, unharmed but skittish as you might think and with no sign of a mother. He felt it best if the creature could come to some new place, out of the shadow of Orthanc."

I am sorry even now that Saruman has vanished without having to make an account for this malice, as I would have liked to see what justice the horse-lords of Rohan would devise.

"A heavy responsibility," Faramir was saying, giving this matter the same weight as any of his diplomatic duties. "But I am touched by Éomer's trust in the matter, though perhaps trust is not quite the word. His words were not so thinly veiled when it came to what might befall relations between Gondor and Rohan should the animal fail to thrive."

"And who has charge of him now?"

"Mablung still, of course. The journey went so well today; I commissioned him to the duty until further notice. Is there some need I should know of?"

I, who had been so proud to need nothing of anyone lest it be turned back to my weakness, was beginning to realize there were some needs I had never imagined. "It only occurred to me that Minas Tirith keeps few animals, or so Beregond mentioned every second mile."

"Ah," Faramir inclined his head, "yes, he is very earnest but I think you will find him loyal and brave."

"I am only surprised that I have not found him under the bed. He seems to think you might perish if he lets you out of his sight. Not," I added wryly, "that you have not given him good reason."

"Would the White Lady of Rohan allow me to come to any harm?" Faramir asked in mock solemnity.

"Certainly not, though I hold that you are far more capable of defending yourself than your captain or Éomer believes, and this can be turned to your advantage. If you truly wish to settle matters with my brother, draw up a list of all your unwed female relations on one of those parchment sheets you cherish and I shall truly give him cause to worry."

Faramir affected a look of mild indignation but a spark lit his eyes at the suggestion. "I have enough cousins thrice-removed to fill two sheets over. Do you have a fair idea of what sort he favors?"

"All too well, and that is precisely what he does not need—more straw-headed, sword-swooning, skirt-spreading camp followers! I believe it may be our fate to save the line of Eórl from perishing in ignominy."

Faramir gave my outburst, somewhat more impassioned than I had at first intended, a single, wide-eyed nod. "As you say, lady," he swore respectfully. "Far be it from me to counsel you against such well-considered plans." He seemed to have swallowed a smile that was struggling valiantly to re-emerge. "Is there anything else you require?"

"With you I lack nothing," I replied. "Except perhaps a bed."

"Ah." Faramir inclined his head at that and rose to rummage through one corner where some small items had been stacked neatly. From one sack, he extracted what seemed to be a folded bundle of sticks that cleverly knit together to form a cot frame upon which the now empty sack was stretched to make a cradle. "I expect your Riders have something similar?"

In fact, they do not and I have forgotten many times over to write Éomer about the matter. True, a cot is no proper bed for two but newly married, but it would be an extravagance for Riders afield who want nothing more than the briefest of sleeps.

Faramir looked first at me and then the cot, as if measuring the probability that we could reach some satisfactory arrangement. Before he could voice his doubts in the matter, I said, "Is this some arcane torture device taken from the ruin of Orthanc? I admire your desire to delve the ancient lore, but surely this goes too far."

At that Faramir laughed until I was afraid that all the men in the Eastfold would come running to see what spell I had put their lord under. I think, though, it is I who have fallen under his spell, one that even the power of the Valar could not break. As it happened, Beregond alone came but restrained himself from bursting through the tent flap. Instead, he appointed himself to march patrol about the tent, precisely eighteen paces to a circuit, and this he maintained until the first light of dawn.

With any sense of privacy completely lost, I suggested that Beregond be dispatched ahead of us to Ithilien but Faramir thought it would be cruel to send the man away when he had already been exiled once. I then suggested I be allowed to smite him over the head with a cot leg, but this too was disallowed, though the suggestion made Faramir smile and at the sight all my resentment faded. I can refuse him nothing when he smiles, not even my own horse, and so I left the matter for the time. With a lifetime before us it seemed dishonorable to complain for the loss of a single night and thus shame a brave man's sacrifice, however unnecessary. We made our own bed together on the ground, a mat of blankets beneath and warm furs above, and no two have slept in such bliss since the Elves slumbered beside the starlit mere of Cuiviénen.


	3. Chapter 3

When we reached Emyn Arnen six very similar nights later, I hoped that I could collect myself before we faced the household, but as we reached the first outlying cottages Faramir was besieged with a dozen urgent matters and I was left to find my own way in the house that first day. Beregond had been appointed as to serve as steward until a permanent selection could be made, but a week standing the night watch without relief had utterly exhausted him. When our mother died, Éomer had tried to help me sleep by counting ponies but now all I need do is recall Beregond's marching feet circling the tent in steady time. I was not completely sorry to see him take his leave, but ruefully jealous that he at least could find a bed to his liking. Falborn remained with me in his stead, as there were a dozen new customs to learn and twice as many names. Eventually he too was required elsewhere, but he promised to show me the land set aside for my gardens before the week was out. I suspect that he, like Faramir, has little love for battle and is glad for this time of peace.

I managed to free myself by late afternoon and spent the last hours of daylight exploring the halls and committing the way to memory. Each room was roofed high against warmer summers yet with tall windows to invite the breeze. The walls were built of the richest timbers upon a foundation of stone of which even a dwarf would approve, and all the best materials of Ithilien were given to its construction. There were more rooms than I could count and even now it is only by the variety of tapestry upon the walls that I am able to guide myself. As some proof of his sincerity, before our marriage Faramir pledged to Éomer that he would build a fine new house here in Ithilien, one that will be worthy of the gardens Legolas has promised, and which I hope will less resemble a labyrinth.

I found my way at last to the master chambers that were twice the size of any I have seen, though dark from long disuse. There was still time to pry back the oaken shutters of each window, which I did without calling for assistance. The last light of the west came streaming across the low hills and suffused each corner of the room, sweeping away every shadow and leaving only quiet hope.

I turned quickly at the sound of steps behind me, so preoccupied in my thoughts that I had not heard Faramir enter. He held himself quite still at the chamber's entrance, half-expectant and yet hopeful, as if I might order him out at any moment. "Do you have all that you require?" he asked quietly.

I held out my hand to him in silent response and he crossed the room to stand beside me, looking out over Ithilien below. "It has been long since I stood here at sunset," he said after a long moment. I did not reply but took his hand and he laced his fingers tightly through mine in mutual accord. "We should visit Henneth Annûn in the spring. The waterfall at sunset would be to your liking."

"If you are there, how could it not be to my liking?"

Faramir smiled again, something that comes to him more easily each day. "You are too kind, Éowyn," he murmured and brushed my forehead with his lips. Freshly scrubbed since our arrival, his dark hair was just drying in a tousled shock that I pushed back from his forehead. I thought he might kiss me then, but he hesitated, standing more stiffly somehow though he had not moved. "The moon will rise soon. Even though we have long feared what lived within the night, the moon has special reverence for us here."

"You have not wed an entirely unlettered woman. Ithilien—Land of the Moon?"

Surprise and pleasure filled his eyes, though the gathering dimness made it difficult to detect. "Do they still speak the Gray Elven tongue in Rohan?"

"When I was young, before the dark years, it was heard in Thengel's house. I remember little," I admitted, "but in Minas Tirith, with Legolas and the King's company, some words returned to me. It is not so difficult to deduce the parts when the sum is known."

Faramir nodded, approving, and something seemed to have kindled in him. Little did I know that he had long cherished a hope of returning the Sindarin speech to his house, as the Númenórean lords of old, should he ever have the chance. "If it pleased you, I have some volumes, small perhaps but well-composed…" His words trailed slightly, like a horse with one hoof just bruised. I realized then that he rarely had the opportunity to discuss such interests and was all too prepared for a rebuff.

"If you will read them with me," I said, and was rewarded by his fully delighted smile. "In faith, I believe you would make a fine tutor."

Faramir shook his head, demurring but obviously hopeful. He had taken my hand in his without seeming to know it and held it close against his chest. "What aught I know came from Mithrandir and you shall have him to thank."

"Perhaps you should offer your services to Éomer as well when we see him next," I bantered, but my intent was serious. "The ways of horses he may know, but women are another matter. He could well use a lesson from you in that."

Faramir's pleased expression faltered in some confusion. "What he may lack in discretion, your brother makes up for with great enthusiasm. I hardly believe he needs my assistance."

"If word from the maidservants is to be believed, he does indeed. You cannot tell me that the steward's son, and quite handsome if I may, never had opportunity to—how do you say?—show his quality? Tell Éomer some good carousing stories from your soldiering days, and then how you found true satisfaction at last with a proper wife after your wild oats were sown."

Faramir's hand laid cold about mine as he held motionless, like a rabbit caught just beyond the verge of high grass. His gaze wavered to the door as if hoping for a very long council meeting to rescue him from the moment. "No," he said quietly at last. "Boromir excelled in that, as always."

I looked sharply to Faramir in surprise, only just able to hold my tongue as I saw from his pained, averted expression that I had misjudged him badly in this. As in so many things, I had taken Éomer as the measure by which all men conducted themselves, which is a noble standard in many ways though somewhat less so in romantic matters. Yet, if it were true that the Rangers had been afield in Ithilien more nights than not, Faramir would have had little chance for the company of women, and not just any would have done. He had lived in fear of disappointing a father who could never be pleased in any matter, much less one so delicate. As Denethor cast his long shadow across Minas Tirith, haunting his son with accusations and derision, would Faramir have even had the opportunity for mere acquaintance, much less something more? He was, after all, a disciplined man of Númenor who aspired to the high romantic ideal of Beren and Tuor; he would rather withhold himself than risk dishonor.

As I struggled to find the words to show that my surprise was anything but displeasure, a persistent whinny drifting up from the meadow below interrupted my thoughts. We glanced together out the window, both glad to have something to consider besides each other. The gathering dark had turned the yearling's coat ghostly white, clearly visible as he charged in snorting spurts along the fence line, then circled back after only a few strides to the low outbuildings reserved for hay and stock feed.

"He does not yet understand, does he?" Faramir's voice nearly broke with wonderment and pride. He released my hand to brace his against the window casement as he gazed down upon the yard below. "In the mere space of a month he has come from hopeless captivity to the full length of this blessed valley. He is lord of all he sees, yet he hardly knows how to claim it as his own."

My jaw slackened for the second time that week as I recalled a lesson I had learned as a girl, one so simple that I had forgotten how true it held for men as well as horses. When a creature has been hobbled long, he can be slow at first to accept freedom, often remaining close to the circumscribed space in which he was held, no matter how resented and despised. Was Faramir, long held in the grip of a sick, despairing father, any different?

"All this land is his by right," I said softly. "He will see that in good time." And time was the surest cure for such a malady, though I ached bitterly for the healing to have finished for us both. I turned to rest my head against Faramir's shoulder and smiled up at him in calm assurance that all would be well. In truth, I was enraged, though not with him nor any other who yet lives in Middle-Earth. Faramir's arm closed somewhat absently around my shoulders, but remained secure as we watched the sun's last light fade beyond the encircling hills.

I am not gifted with the future sight as some Elves are, but I can read the river waters to seek out the currents beneath, and deeper turmoil oft betrays itself in a smooth surface. This shadow had troubled Faramir long enough by my reckoning, but it would not be countered directly. There were some horses I had known who were unaccountably shy about taking apples and carrots offered from the hand, but would readily claim what was left on fencepost or manger rim. I doubt that Faramir would have approved of my likening him to an aging war mount, but the likeness was plain. Though he could not yet accept the gift I offered, fearing it would be lost as soon as he stretched forth his hand, I could make plain that I had given myself to him and to no other, then leave the rest to time.

"Have you written Éomer's letter yet today?" I asked, as if this were a formal ritual we had established for our house.

Faramir shook his head with a rueful sigh, breaking free of his reflection. "Amidst the turmoil of tenants, each with a grievance most pressing, I had somehow managed to forget your brother's glowering visage."

"Have mercy—he lost his only sister to a strange lord from the Southlands. Go," I gently prodded, "see to your dispatches or you will have that much more for the morrow. Would wine help ease the task?

Faramir shook his head warily but his voice was light. "I fell prey to Rohan's spirits once before and do not need the lesson twice."

I went to the sideboard and held out the bottle blown of a curious green glass that had arrived from Dol Amroth only that morning, sent as a special gift for this first night in Emyn Arnen. "May we trust to your uncle's impeccable taste?"

The eagerness with which Faramir found two goblets was answer enough. He did not raise the golden cup until mine was full and even then he hesitated, as if searching for some way to toast a hope that he could not bring himself to name. Swiftly, I drained my cup to spare him the effort and he followed suit, glad to keep a while longer what lay heavy on him. I kissed him quickly as he looked down, all the sweeter for the wine, then refilled his cup and nudged him back towards the narrow writing table upon which he had established a small city of ink bottles, pens and parchment rolls.

I busied myself about the chamber, finding candles at last in the lowest drawer of the massive press. I had no desire for my husband's eyes to grow dim before their time so I lit a full dozen fat tallow tapers and set them in black iron sconces to light the recessed bay where he wrote. Other possessions had been sent directly from Minas Tirith and still needed sorting and unpacking as well, all of which occupied my hands and allowed me to find peace in the simple competency of ordering the room. I cast brief glances at Faramir as he wrote and felt that though he worked steadily, filling each sheet with precisely inked characters, his thoughts were more upon me than his undertaking.

The night, pleasantly warm, had fallen fully now but I had not closed the windows, allowing Ithilien's beloved moon to shine full into the chamber. My hair had been elaborately braided for the day and I was all too glad to loose it now, combing the length of it with a care that would have made my childhood nurse proud indeed. I was long accustomed to serving as my own maid, having little patience to wait for another to do what I could tend to for myself. Getting on with the business of the day has always been far more interesting to me than the preparations for it. For just that reason I have never worn attire that required much in the way of fastening and I could manage that for myself as well.

Behind me, the sound of pen on parchment had become somewhat erratic and stopped altogether with a shuddering scritch as my gown fell away, pooling at my feet. I gave no sign that I had noticed, but swept it up and laid the length of it upon the bed. I had set out the shift I wore on our wedding night, as Faramir could not claim to have had full opportunity to appreciate it the first time. As I slipped the white linen sheath over my head, I heard Faramir's soft cursing as the parchment tore through completely. I know more curses than most from keeping the company of men and I judged my husband was most distressed to have selected that particular one.

"Have you given a full account of our journey?" I asked, barely glancing over my shoulder. Faramir nodded somewhat jerkily as he searched for a fresh page and began again from the ruined copy. "I trust you assured him that the yearling is well?"

"As best I could, though I expect you should do a more satisfactory job of that." Faramir sounded calmer now that I was dressed once more, though he remained staring fixedly down at the desk. I moved to stand just behind him and leaned to peer over his shoulder at what he had written. He tilted the sheet to let the light fall more favorably and the page trembled faintly in his hand.

"Most diligent," I pronounced after a moment. "Your Rohirric is to be commended." Under the circumstances, his penmanship had remained remarkably steady as well. "Perhaps we should give the horse a name. It should have received one at birth, like any king's child."

"Éomer mentioned as much, but I thought you should like the honor. As you say, my Rohirric is passable but I should never live down the shame of mistakenly christening it Slow-Foot or Stumble-Leg."

I have rarely laughed without expectation or control, but Faramir has some quality about him that looses all bonds within me. I kissed the crown of his head and pressed my cheek to his in joy at the thought. "I shall give the matter careful consideration before our next letter. Is there any other subject we should address?"

"I can scarcely imagine what has been left unsaid! Éomer spent most of the wedding banquet instructing me in every accumulated point of horselore that your long-fathers have acquired in all their venerable generations."

I turned to face Faramir, suddenly stung by my brother's mistrust. I doubted he had learned anything from the horse-masters that I had not wrung from them myself. "What wisdom did he feel I lacked?"

"Peace, Éowyn," Faramir said, but fondly. "Your brother spoke for my benefit, not yours. In Gondor we value our horses but we do not think of them as our own children as you do. Éomer advised me to be patient while becoming familiar, to allow it time to learn my voice and scent."

"Sound words," I agreed, begrudging. "Simply having such a creature in your stable does not grant you the lordship of it. Did he warn you that the _mearas_ would suffer none but the kings of Rohan to ride them?"

Faramir nodded, shifting somewhat uneasily. "But as he has reminded me more than once, you are the daughter of kings and so shall your children be, though I am not."

His tone seemed light but we were circling each other warily where we had spoken openly before. Our words were simple enough but Faramir seemed to have steeled himself for battle. We had arrived at some tender point, and though I could not fathom it, I would not shy away.

"And what else did my brother mention?"

Faramir had turned half from me to gaze out at the valley below, the early moon's light silvering his pale features. When he spoke, his words nearly ached with regret and longing. "That proud creatures which have been neglected long and come to mistrust the touch of men should be shown nothing but patience and kindness before anything more could be asked."

So perhaps some spark of the bards of Rohan was yet alive in Éomer: he had not been speaking of horses at all but of his sister. We had never spoken openly of what happened in the darkened corners of Meduseld—that was not Éomer's way, nor mine—but I knew he watched Wormtongue as closely as Wormtongue watched me. In truth, there had been nothing to accuse the wretch of beyond the ever-present dread he cast over my life, though surely matters would have gone differently had the White Rider not delivered us all, and myself not the least. Éomer had seen all that, but he had been at the Black Gate when I met Faramir and did not fully know what kind of man he was. Éomer had protected me as best he could, first in our orphanhood and then during the long dark days in Edoras, so that he could not stop even now when I was wedded to the very one who had drawn me back from the shadow.

I had been mistaken on nearly every count. Faramir's hesitation came out of concern for my sake and not his own inexperience, real though that was. His hands trembled not from fear or reluctance, but the greatest restraint as he willed himself to abstain from that which he desired above all else. He knew how I had been injured and would rather deny himself than be the cause of another wound. Like myself though, Faramir was mistaken in that he did not comprehend that he himself had healed me long ago in Minas Tirith, a curing so complete that it ran back through all my years to the first roots of neglect and abandonment. I did not fear pain or death, and because of him neither did I fear love.

I am not certain what led me then, I who knew more of swords and horses and funeral songs than the ways of men. It was instinct and desire alone that led me to where he sat, still staring fixedly out the window, and to sink down astride his lap, legs tucked beneath me. My forehead came gently to rest against his as I gazed into his eyes and did not allow him to look away.

"And did my brother give you any sign by which to know when such a creature was willing to be asked for further trust?"

Faramir seemed to swallow deep within his throat, searching for words that had eluded him for perhaps the first time in his well-spoken life. "I believe he, ah, may…"

I grew impatient—it is a fault of mine since childhood—and kissed him instead. We had kissed before, somewhat chastely though not without feeling, but this was something wholly new. Had Éomer seen us kiss thus before we wed, he surely would have ordered Faramir to sleep in the stable under armed guard. Even when we broke apart there was barely space between us and Faramir's hands remained occupied, though not quite as I had hoped.

"Did you misplace something, my Lord Steward?"

Faramir looked distinctly guilty and he laced his fingers together across the small of my back, as if they could not be trusted. I sat back some few inches, resting against the cradle of his hands and fixed him intently.

"Forgive me," he said at last, "the _wæpnan_?"

"Pardon?"

Faramir straightened slightly beneath me and I shifted with him. I had ridden every horse in the King's stable save Shadowfax: he would not escape so easily. "The, ah…" His attention wavered and it seemed that he had difficulty composing his thoughts. "The _wæpnan,_ the dagger each bride of Rohan receives from the men of her household and bears with her on her the night of her wedding, in case…her husband does not…she is…well, to…"

I tried desperately not to laugh but Faramir looked so earnest that I could not help myself. I might have laughed a scant dozen times in the years of Théoden's decline and now it seemed that once I began I could hardly stop. I slumped against him in relief and I felt Faramir begin to laugh as well though he knew not why.

"Swear to me," I whispered, "that you will not hurt Éomer? I know my brother, he would not have done this if he did not love us both."

Faramir was not as reassured as I had hoped. "Is...is this how the m-men of the Mark treat their sword-brothers?"

I nodded, one hand pressed to my mouth to still the last traces of laughter. "And you had best prepare yourself for more of such if you wish to return to Rohan."

The last of the shock receding, Faramir quite nearly grinned in relief as he gamely accepted the jest. "Well, I had wondered where you might hide it."

"I welcome you to search," I replied lightly. The shift I wore hid little enough, a fact that did not seem entirely lost on my husband. I confess now that although I did not lie to him, I had for many years slept with a knife no more than a handsbreadth away, but I would not invite that foul shadow into our chamber, now or ever, even by the mention of it. Perhaps Éomer knew of this somehow—he had given me the knife himself on some pretext—and wished to protect Faramir, though I would wager it more likely that the idea had begun as another of his pranks and the chance to accomplish both ends at once had been too much to resist.

It was some time before we spoke again, which was no small feat. Faramir chooses his words most wisely, but we had found such pleasure in speech together that prolonged silence was unusual. I had to make some excuse at last, to regain my breath if nothing else.

"It may interest you to know, as a scholar among men," I said with some effort, "that there is a point to note regarding the women of Rohan."

Faramir affected a look of great interest but managed another kiss when my guard had lowered. "Alas, my tutors neglected the subject in favor of the history of table manners. But as I only desire to know one woman, perhaps you will be so kind as to teach me yourself?"

"Gladly, and likewise! This is your lesson for the day, m'lord, so pay heed. History has taught us in the Mark that shieldmaidens who spend more hours on horseback than their own two feet are highly sought as wives and well-prepared indeed."

Faramir grappled with the implications, and when he finally arrived at my full meaning his embrace tightened about me as though he might not release me ever again under the sun. Swinging me up into his arms, he laughed with joy unrestrained until the rafters of the chamber rang and the echoes carried out to the courtyard itself, causing the yearling to whinny in reply.

"The door!" I begged him through my own laughter, gesturing at the iron bolt. "For pity's sake, bar the door or Beregond will rush to protect you and I shall be forced to slay the poor man!"

The speed with which Faramir secured the door could only be matched by how quickly he returned to me, and we have not since been parted. Of what followed that night, I shall leave to memory (and it was memorable indeed) for it is possible that this volume will someday be discovered by the child which is forming within me even now. Ioreth of Gondor had foreseen this when Faramir first looked toward my rooms as he walked in the garden, forsaking the eastward walls. "Even the poorest archer will find the mark with enough arrows," Ioreth had pontificated, foreseeing a house full of quiet golden-headed boys and quick grey-eyed girls who loved the stables more than their stitching. Whether this child has come of that first night or those which followed none but Mandos could say, but I believe even Éomer himself would be duly respectful of Faramir's marksmanship though I have told neither of them yet the news.

Captain Beregond has settled to his own duties more quickly than I could have hoped now that his wife and son have come to join him from Minas Tirith. Bergil is a fine, sharp lad, quite Hobbit-like in some regards, and provides more than sufficient distraction for his father. Falborn has been assigned to assist me in all things, save my daily lessons in the Elven tongues which are proceeding diligently though not without effort. I have found the rudimentary examples of _farmer_, _tree_ and _cow_ quite uninspiring, and this has led Faramir to compose his own text, in verse, of the adventures of a young shieldmaiden on a quest across the lands of Middle-Earth.

Though Eomer's fears have eased with time, we still write him duly several times a week, particularly as we hope to travel soon to Edoras. Faramir's cousin Lothíriel has conceived a desire to see the ruin of Orthanc—a curious girl, quick-minded, fearing little—and we have offered to escort her with our retinue. Faramir has been busily devising all manner of Gondorian courting customs to bedevil my brother with, and I cannot say that I have not assisted in the matter. But as could be expected, our letters most often concern the yearling, now christened Celenár, Silver-Fire in the Common Speech, who has cast off every shadow and taken full possession of all Ithilien. Like so many children, he has become a joy and exasperation to his guardians who would temper his spirits with good sense but we can deny him nothing.

Each evening I stand with Faramir and look out upon the West to watch the setting sun dapple Celenár's silver mane as the Two Trees mingled their light on that First Day in the Bliss of Valinor. Tonight shall be especially blessed though as I tell my husband that he is not the last of the Stewards and that his line will yet endure in Middle-Earth, and together we will give thanks for this land and the love which has graced our lives.


End file.
